I am a desk.
There’s a book box
on top of my head, and a
name tag taped up there, too.
I have journals and folders
inside of my chest—that’s
what I get for being a desk.
Eraser dust is in the air . . .
pencil leads and shreds.
All I see is the back of a chair
and crayons and pencils everywhere!
A girl is always reading in
my friend, the textbook;
and she plunges her snack
on my head every day. That’s
how I know I’m a desk . . .
in every single desk-like way!